


fundr

by Siria



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Coda, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-25
Updated: 2011-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 00:38:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/256906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>fundr (n.) - <i>Old Norse</i> — a meeting; a battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fundr

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trinityofone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trinityofone/gifts).



> Thanks to dogeared for betaing!

He did not fall. To say that Loki fell would have implied there was an _up_ or a _down_ , that he had a trajectory or a velocity, that eventually it would end. He hung in the nothingness, his gaze full of the bright haze of the void, until after an endless age he glimpsed something out of the corner of his eye—something bright blue and fast-moving. Loki blinked, focused, realised that that something was approaching _him_ —and then he was inside it. If Loki hadn't known for a fact that he wasn't responsible, he would have suspected the involvement of his own magic in this, for he had walked on all the known worlds and never before encountered a place where the internal dimensions were greater than those on the outside.

Loki was lying on a floor, he realised, sinew and bone subject to gravity for the first time in longer than he could remember; he ached all over. He flexed his fingers and found himself looking up at a pair of eyes that were about as blue as his, and just as old.

"You know," the person said, squinting. "Normally I avoid Sundays, Sundays are a bit rubbish, nothing ever happens on a Sunday, but just this once I thought I'd give one a try, and what do you know—you showed up, when normally it's nothing but repeats on the telly and planets where people have very long conversations about lint. Exception that proves the rule, you are."

Loki sat up and rubbed at his head, which ached as if he'd just come from a sparring bout with the Warriors Three. "How did I get here?" By rights, he should have been slowly fading into the void, the cold light of the stars the only witness to his endless penance.

"Not quite sure, but I suspect quantum," the person said, rummaging in his coat pocket. He produced a small, crinkling bag of something and thrust it out at Loki. "Terrible thing, quantum, fancy a jelly baby? Only none of the green ones are left, I'm partial to the green ones."

Whatever else he may have been, could yet be, Loki was still the trickster, the sly tongued—he knew the feel of a sleight of hand, felt his palms itch in recognition of misdirection. "Who are you?" he said, though he suspected he would not receive an answer.

"You can call me the Doctor," the man said, jamming the bag back into his pocket. Loki's suspicions were correct.

"The Doctor?" he said, putting every ounce of scepticism he could muster into his voice—and that was no small amount.

"Now you've got it!" the Doctor said. The rhythm of his words was peculiar, skipping between hurried and considering. "Can be a tricky thing to get right, the inhabitants of Sedelim 3 have the devil of a time with it—of course, they've got two tongues to deal with, can't be easy, must be awful trying to eat a popsicle." He beamed, as wide and open as Loki's erstwhile brother, but the resemblance to Thor wasn't absolute—there was no warmth in this one's eyes.

Loki stood cautiously and looked around the room—it shone warm, as golden as the eyes of Heimdall, though the architecture was like nothing with which Loki was familiar. When he breathed in, the air was crisp as electricity on his tongue and tasted of spices. "I hope you don't expect me to believe this was a coincidence. Who sent you?"

"Oh, no one sent me, Laufeyson," the Doctor said, and Loki flinched, unable to help himself. The smile slipped from the Doctor's face, and he looked suddenly ancient: like someone who'd seen the birth of stars. "I'm what you might call an independent agent. Interested party."

Loki folded his arms. He had no true sense of where or when he was, knew there was little chance that he would simply be able to walk from this room—not when he could sense a static crawl on his skin, a low level hum around him, as if the very walls were watching him with interest. For once, bluntness might serve him best. "Interested in what?"

"Earth," the Doctor said. "Or Midgard, if you prefer—did you know there's a whole race of intelligent termites living on its moon whose word for it is 'the big blue thing'? No? Well, they're not very sociable beings, not surprised you haven't run into them—but Earth, yes. Nice place, lots of nice people, make an excellent jammy dodger, and I find myself sort of dubious about this whole thing where you destroy it."

Loki stiffened. "That was never my intention. And Midgard is safe now, Thor will—"

The Doctor flapped a hand, interrupting him. "Not talking about what you've done—though bad form, honestly, just impolite all around and you should really write an apology letter to your mum, she'll be miffed—I'm talking about what you're going to do. I mean, from your perspective, will do. Past tense for me, and I'd sort of like to make it a bit more past unreal conditional tense myself. As it were."

"A time traveller?" Loki said. Understanding dawned. "I know who you are. You're—"

The Doctor smiled, his mouth a sickle-sharp curve. "Shh," he said. "Spoilers."

"But if you're here," Loki said, "then who—"

"You know," the Doctor said, "that's probably the _most_ boring question you could ask right now, really, are you sure you're not a geography teacher in disguise? Terrible creatures, geography teachers. Besides, no time for that now. I mean, there's lots and lots of time out there, glorious stuff, but even that's finite and also there's no rest for the wicked, which means _you_ have places to be and things to do."

He hurried over to the room's central console, flipped some levers, pushed some buttons—around them, everything began to shudder and shake, a subsonic moan that Loki felt in the very marrow of his bones. "What are you doing?"

"Just setting our destination," the Doctor said. "Manhattan, Earth, about, hrm, three months before it'd be too late—that should give you time to settle in, I think. Camouflage, I bet we can camouflage you."

Loki hadn't felt so wrong-footed in some time, not since his skin had brushed against that of a jötunn and revealed the truth to him. He felt he should protest, refuse, deny—and yet he couldn't think of what to say.

The Doctor looked up at him, narrowed his eyes. "Have to get you something a little more Earth-appropriate to wear, though. They're not foolish, humans, you're not going to blend in dressed like that."

Loki looked down at himself. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"Not a thing!" the Doctor said cheerfully. "I wonder if it comes in my size actually, I do like a cape, but this is 21st century Earth we're talking about—can't very well wander around looking like an Asgard from the last millennium, can you?"

"My tailor assured me that this is the very latest design," Loki said stiffly. He felt strangely affronted. The Lady Sif had complimented him on it—or at least, she'd only rolled her eyes at him a little the first time he'd worn it, which was much the same thing, for her.

"Oh, of course," the Doctor said. "I'm positive that's true." He squinted at Loki in an assessing manner. "Tell me," he said. "What do you think about a fez?"


End file.
